Catch me, I'm falling
by msgenevieve447
Summary: She tells him she's not in the mood for a drink or him, and she means it (well, almost). She should have known he'd see that as a challenge. (My official post-403 fic. Missing scene set between the forest and Emma Swan's swift exit from Granny's and her less-than-successful attempt to ignore Killian Jones. Contains dialogue (and kissing!) that does not belong to me.)


Emma can't remember the last time she had a toothache, but she's pretty sure it felt something like this. A dull niggle that won't go away, no matter how hard she tries to think about something else, the slightest touch to the tender spot sending a wave of misery through her all over again.

She doesn't look at Killian as they make their way back to the town centre. She can't. Every time she looks at him, all she sees is those fucking icicles above his head, their razor-sharp points glinting in the sunlight, and remembers the fear that had almost choked her. He could have died, and it would have been her fault as much as his, because he's as good as told her she's the reason he's still in Storybrooke.

Even without looking at him, she can tell her silence is worrying him, and she tells herself she's glad. Anything that might make him think twice about taking such a stupid risk ever again has to be a good thing. Anything that will stop her from feeling as though her heart is being ripped out of her chest ever again is _definitely_ a good thing.

That woman, whoever the hell she was, had made it personal. She'd gone after Killian, and Emma didn't think it had been a random choice.

_She knew me._

The thought reaches down into the darkest parts of her, stirring old, nameless fears, and one very familiar feeling of dread. She has no idea who the freaking Dairy Queen is, but if that woman has it in for her, for whatever reason, then it's a pretty simple equation. Anyone that the Saviour cares about is in danger.

Just like they always have been.

It's dark by the time they reach Granny's, and she doesn't protest when David takes the lead as they approach the front door. Emma motions for Elsa to follow him, taking pains to keep her tone as cheerful as possible. "It'll be okay, I promise. We won't let anyone harm you."

The other woman gives her a grateful smile. "I know."

Silently hoping she can live up to Elsa's faith in her, she starts to follow her through the door, but is stopped by the gentle yet firm grip of a familiar hand. She stops, but still can't bring herself to meet his eyes. "You've been through the wringer already today, love. Why don't you let your father handle this one?"

Killian's tone is as gentle as his voice, but it still chafes over her skin like itching powder. "Because I'm the Sheriff, that's why." She takes a deep breath and lifts her head, finally staring him in the face. "Just because _you_don't listen to me doesn't mean that _they _won't."

He recoils as if she's struck him, and her heart sinks, both in dismay and a whole lot of guilt. _Shit. _Before she can say anything, his expression flattens out, his eyes becoming distant, and he gives her a brisk nod. "Fair enough, Swan." Reaching out his right arm, he holds the door open for her. "Your public awaits, then."

And just like that, she's back to being angry again, which makes no sense because now he actually _is _doing what she's asked. Shaking her head, she stomps into the diner, not looking to see if he's following her.

He is, of course.

Thanks to Henry's texts, she already knows her son is with Regina and Robin (and a still-frozen Marian, oh God, what a mess), so she's not surprised that they're not amongst the crowd gathered at Granny's to discuss the latest turn of events. Neither is she surprised to see that Leroy and Granny have successfully whipped the crowd up into a ridiculous frenzy _again_ (she's had a few text messages from Archie today, too), and at the sight of Elsa standing behind David, the room breaks out into a babble of unintelligible panic. Emma blows out a frustrated sigh, and yells louder than she's ever yelled in this place. "_Hey!_"

A stunned silence falls over the crowd, and she doesn't have to turn her head to know that Killian is grinning behind her. Stepping forward, she puts her hand on Elsa's shoulder. "As many of you already know, this is Elsa, and she is looking for her sister, Anna." She sees Leroy open his mouth, and she holds up her free hand. "She _did_ put up the ice wall-"

"I _knew _it." Leroy's shout is triumphant, and Emma feels something snap inside her head.

"You can let me speak, Leroy, or you can keep interrupting me." Emma smiles at him, but really, it's more like baring her teeth. "But as far as I know, I'm the only one here who has both magic _and_ a gun."

The dwarf's expression freezes, then his mouth turns down at the corners. He looks, Emma thinks irreverently, like that internet-famous cat Henry had found so hilarious while they were living in New York. "Whatever you say,_sister_."

"Elsa tried to take down the wall, but someone else's magic stopped her from doing it." She looks around the room, trying to make eye contact with as many people as she can. "That same someone else was the person who cursed Marian, and she almost succeeded in hurting someone else this afternoon." She doesn't say his name. That would make it all too real. "As Archie already tried to suggest to you this morning, Elsa isn't the one responsible for the curse on Marian."

The babble breaks out again, but this time she manages to get the gist of the question they're all trying to ask at the same time. "Okay, we don't know_who _this person really is yet, but we do know she's the owner of the ice cream parlour." There's a general reaction of disbelief and disappointment, and once again, Emma feels her temper begin to fray. "You don't believe me?"

Leroy is scowling again. "It's not that."

Emma stares at him. "Then what is it?"

"That was the best ice cream joint we've ever had in this town."

Beside her, David sighs. "Well, it's good to see your priorities are in place."

After a few more minutes of general crowd control (she's very grateful for David's calm presence at her side, a happy perk of your father having been a ruler of an enchanted kingdom) Emma turns to the woman at her side, who is looking more than a little overwhelmed. "Would you like something to eat?"

Elsa's smile is a tired one. "Something hot would be good." She brushes some lingering leaves from the front of her dress. "I never thought I'd say this, but I think I've had enough ice for one day."

"You and me both," Emma mutters, and leads the way to the counter. She knows Killian is hovering at the edges of the crowd, but she can't talk to him. Not now, not when the fear of seeing him die in front of her is still eating away at her, picking at her composure until the urge to lock him in a cell at the station for his own good is almost overwhelming.

Thirty minutes later (thirty minutes in which she determinedly ignores him in favour of trying to install calm in the townspeople) she hears the jingle of the bell above the door, and turns to find the booth where he'd been sitting empty. He's gone, apparently without trying to say goodnight to her, and she tells herself that she's relieved.

She really is a terrible liar.

* * *

><p>He hasn't gone, of course. Since when did he ever do what she expected him to do?<p>

Her feet falter on the paving stones when she sees him sitting outside Granny's (he would have to sit at _that_ table) but she forces herself to keep walking. She'd told her father that she needed some air and he'd assured her that he and Elsa would be fine and they'd see her at home, but right now she feels like she's jumped out of the frying pan straight into the pirate-shaped fire.

Killian's face lights up with a shy smile when he sees her, and her feet falter a second time. "Swan!"

She can't do it. Not tonight. No matter how much she wants to be with him, it's not safe, not with that snow bitch still out there.

When she doesn't stop, his face falls. "Don't make a man drink alone."

"Not in the mood for a drink," she shoots back, her words keeping time with her marching feet. "Or- man," she add, stumbling over the words. In reality, she's not in the mood for _him _and the way he makes her feel, all panicked and afraid of being broken all over again, but she can't tell him that, because he'll just try to shoot her fears down and she'll just get angry and she's so tired of bouncing around from one extreme to the other.

He comes after her (following her lead, just as he always does), his boots clicking on the wet asphalt of the road. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you today." Her feet feel like they're made of lead but she keeps walking, even though every word he says is grabbing at her heart and telling her to stop, stop, stop. "Right, I know you feel like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders but at some point-," his voice is breathless and pleading and suddenly right behind her, his hook curling around her arm. (She turns to face him, because she's tired of running and he deserves to hear the truth, even if it hurts both of them.) "Even though we're quite different, you've got to trust me."

"That's what you think this is about, that I don't trust you?" She can't believe that Killian, of all people, have gotten this so wrong.

Confusion flares in his eyes. "Is that_ not_ what it's about?"

"Of _course_ I trust you!"

He still doesn't believe her, she can see it in his face, and _that _hurts more than she ever thought it could. "Then why do you keep pulling away from me?"

The words are out of her mouth before she can even think about biting them back. "Because everyone I've ever been with is dead!"

He stares at her, stunned into silence, and for a few long seconds, the only sound is their breathing, harsh and laboured. She inhales a lungful of cool night air, and feels the cracks in her heart begin to widen and tremble as she speaks the names she knows will always haunt her. "Neal, Graham," she hesitates, then goes on, because she thought she'd loved him once, even if it wasn't real, "even Walsh."

Killian's eyes are dark as they search hers, but he doesn't speak. "I lost everyone," she tells him, her voice scratching at her throat, raw and filled with fear. She remembers the icicles above his head, waiting to fall and pierce his heart and take him from her. "I can't lose you too."

He smiles.

She's just poured out her darkest fear to him (God, her heart is pounding), and he's smiling. "Well love, you don't have to worry about me." His eyes never leave hers, as if he's willing her to believe his reassuring words. "If there's one thing I'm good at, it's surviving."

She wants to believe him. She wants to believe him more than anything, because even the possibility of finally being able to keep someone, to keep_him_, is overwhelming.

His gaze is still burning into hers, and she suddenly feels breathless, as though she's just run into a brick wall. He's standing close enough for her to see the kaleidoscope of blue and silver of his eyes, close enough for the warmth radiating from his body to make her skin prickle with arousal. It's the same sensation that gripped her as they'd stood in the middle of the forest clearing a few days ago. Then, she'd given him a chaste kiss and asked him to be patient.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, and his gaze drops to her lips. His eyes darken at the same time her stomach flips over, then he steps forward, his mouth covering hers in a hard, hot kiss.

There's nothing chaste about _this _kiss.

This kiss has her swaying backwards on her heels, then falling back into him like a pendulum, her mouth opening to his as naturally as breathing, her hands coming up to clutch at him, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath her palms. She kisses him back just as fiercely, desire and anger and fear bubbling up inside her, heat burning low in her belly as she tastes his mouth and his tongue and the rough groan that rumbles up from deep in his chest.

He doesn't stop kissing her.

They're in the middle of Main Street where anyone could see them, but he doesn't stop kissing her, and that's okay with her. His hand is low on her back, sliding up underneath her jacket until she feels the heat of his palm through her thin t-shirt. That's okay too, because her hands are under _his_jacket, trailing down his side before smoothing over his chest, feeling the wild hammering of his heart beneath her palm.

She almost lost him today.

As if he's heard her silent lament, his kiss changes, becoming more urgent, deeper and hungrier, and she goes where he leads, nipping at his bottom lip, revelling in the feel of his hand tangling itself in her hair. The hand on her back slides lower, exerting a subtle question she's only too happy to answer, fitting her hips against his, the hollow throb of arousal burning through her flaring into a fever-bright mad thing at the feel of him, finally crossing that unspoken line between a kiss and something else, something more, something that they definitely need to take somewhere private.

He shudders against her, a strangled sound humming at the back of his throat, his mouth never once leaving hers. He rocks his hips against hers and it's her turn to gasp, because he's hard against her, the thick ridge of his erection pressing exactly where she's aching and trembling and _fuck_, this is why she's always walked away after she's kissed him, because this was always going to happen and it can't happen tonight.

_And once he stops kissing her_, she thinks dazedly, _maybe she'll remember it's not a good idea to simply drag him off into his room at Granny's and put them both out of their misery._

His teeth drag over her bottom lip as they sway together, and she feels it everywhere, breasts and belly and groin, her skin suffused with a heat that seems to sink right down to her bones. _Fuck, this is too much. This is too much and too good and she doesn't want to stop -_

Later, she supposes she should be grateful for the sparking overhead streetlights for bringing her back to her senses, but right now, she's just confused and resentful and more aroused than a person should be while standing in the middle of a public street. She tears her mouth away from his, twisting in his embrace to stare at the string of now dark streetlights behind them, wrinkling her nose at the sudden smell of blown electrical wiring. "What the hell?"

She stares at the swinging lamps as realisation dawns. Oh, _God. _She did that. That was _her._

She feels Killian's chuckle as much as she hears it, and she knows he's just come to the same conclusion. She turns to find him looking at her with such blatant male pride that she starts to laugh, because that was some crazy shit and her life might be insane, but she's happy he's in it. He grins at her. Smugly, of course. "You alright there, love?"

_Bastard_, she thinks with tender resentment. "I was just going to ask you the same thing, _Captain._" Unable to resist the temptation to wipe that grin right off his face and take his focus away from the fact that they just managed to blow several fuses, she puts her hand on his chest (his heart is still going off like a jackhammer) and slides it downward, very slowly. When she reaches his belt buckle (and stops, because they're still standing in the middle of the damned street and she's not _that _far gone) his gaze narrows, and he reaches between them to curl his fingers around her wrist.

"Despite what I told you earlier, love, there's no need to attempt to kill me this evening simply to test the theory."

Laughter shimmers through her chest, fizzing like champagne bubbles. "In that case, you wanna head back inside?" She wraps her hands around his arms, unable to stop herself from touching him, or maybe she's not sure whether her knees are working properly again yet. "I think maybe I'm in the mood for a drink after all."

Mischief dances in his eyes. "And perhaps a man as well?"

She can feel herself swaying towards him, her whole body doing its pendulum trick again. Okay, so their latest grudge-holding villian is still out there, but their best chance of surviving is to stick together, just as it's always been.

Sometimes she really hates it when he's right.

"I guess we'll see, won't we?" His mouth is warm and soft against hers as she kisses him one last time (for now, at least) and the fear that had her in its clutches earlier relaxes its hold, letting her breath easier.

She might wait until tomorrow to tell the new Mayor about the broken streetlights, though.


End file.
